Listening/inspired of "I can't decide" of Scissors Sisters. Dee & Verk

Home might be the strangest place of all. They left Earth as seven adults—vetted, trained, disciplined, and prepared for the long arc toward the as-yet-unrealized wonders of a new civilization on Mars. Ten months out, a few months on the red dust as the beginning of an epoch, then ten seemingly interminable months back. A simple equation of distance and duty.

When they finally descended through Earth’s atmosphere and returned home a little more than two years later, they braced for the often-loathed parades, policy briefings, and the solemn weight of historical headlines. Inside each of the astronauts, there was also a secret longing for the attention, the contact, and the return to their remembered normalcy.

Instead, they stepped into a nursery.

The spaceport, once a mega-cathedral of steel and ethical protocol, had been remade into something soft and dreamy in pastel. Interlocking safety mats covered the floors. All perceived sharp corners had been rounded and padded. A mural from a famous kindergarten artist of smiling cartoon planets stretched across the far wall.

And the officials waiting to greet them wore NASA bibs.

At first, the crew thought it was a prank. Maybe the ultimate joke. But then the “officials” began speaking in sing-song rhymes, the kind printed on candy-sweet cereal boxes labeled “safe for all ages.”

Parliamentarians toddled about, blankets around their shoulders or clutched in their arms, begging their parents for snack money. Lobbyists toddled over to steal some of the lunch money. Soldiers zoomed past in pastel plastic electric cars, firing foam darts across an imagined European battlefield of playground mulch until their batteries died and tears flowed.

Places of worship had become carnivals. Olympic stadiums were now grassy hills for rolling contests, with pizza on the podiums. Restaurants served only finger food with plastic cups prepared by robot chefs; knives, after all, were “too dangerous” and had been locked away as per governmental social edict.

It wasn’t societal chaos. It was utopian policy. Somewhere during their absence, safety culture had metastasized—swiftly, completely. Every risk eliminated, every sharp edge dulled, every responsibility outsourced to machines. And once adulthood itself was deemed unsafe, society simply chose to erase it.

But the astronauts soon noticed something far stranger. People weren’t just behaving like children—they were celebrating it.

Fashion had become toddler chic. Apartments were redesigned as bouncy air playlands. Pop stars squealed in rhyming delight, their clown concerts choreographed like preschool hand-waving sing-alongs. Stars with names like Dirty Clean, Car Car, and Poo Poo reigned the charts for crayon-chewing and paste-eating neo ‘dults.

A fandom had formed around regression itself, as fervent and sprawling as any built around a blockbuster franchise. Only here, the devotion was to permanent infancy.

One moment crystallized the absurdity. A mother crouched to her toddler’s level after he misbehaved. She wore bright overalls, cartoon sneakers, and plastic barrettes in her hair. Instead of scolding him, she unleashed a torrent of complex adult vocabulary—dense, abstract phrases the boy could never understand at his level of development. He stared blankly. She beamed, convinced she had acted responsibly. It was discipline without meaning, guidance without growth.

Later, the seven astronauts were invited to a formal dinner in their honor. At first glance, it resembled a true banquet: long tables, place settings, a ceremonial hush. But the white tablecloths had been replaced with plastic spill-proof covers patterned with balloons. Wine goblets were gone, replaced by brightly colored sippy cups. Plates were oversized plastic trays divided into compartments, much like those served in a penitentiary.

Halfway through the meal, one astronaut leaned toward another. “Why are you eating with your hands?” he whispered.

She froze. Sticky sauce dripped from her fingers. Around them, the others were doing the same, scooping food messily, laughing with mouths full.

The astronaut’s eyes filled with tears. She tried to steady herself, but the tears spilled, plinking into her alphabet soup. The tiny splashes made the others erupt in snickers, then laughter, as if it were the punchline to a joke. Their giggles echoed across the table, balloon patterns shimmering under the lights. She grew more desolate, shoulders trembling with the beginnings of a sob.

The astronaut who had whispered the question felt laughter rising in his own throat—instantive, helpless. He caught himself just as it escaped his mouth, the sound dying into a strangled breath. Shame washed over him. He felt the regression taking hold, not just in dining habits but in spirit.

A chill passed through the group that froze thought. They were not immune. Whatever had overtaken Earth was creeping into their own minds.

They realized they had to return to Mars, the last place where adulthood still existed.

But no one on Earth was capable of sending them back anymore. Every official, every technician, every leader was now a child in spirit, trapped in a permanent state of ready-for-bedtime.

Or so it seemed.

In the launch facility, hidden behind padded doors and pastel signage, one figure remained. Not a politician. Not a scientist. A child—an actual child—watching them approach with solemn eyes, lowered in a dark and mournful sadness that should be beyond a child’s years.

This child was different. Her legs were braced in metal supports, each step deliberate, hard-won. Her gaze was steady, her mind stable despite a fragile body. Disabled, vulnerable, yet uncorrupted by the infantile tide that had washed over the world.

The astronauts saw in this child both weakness and a hint of salvation. In this new world, only children were trusted with responsibility. And only a child who had already lived with such difficulty could understand and withstand the weight of choice.

They pleaded for escape.

The child listened.

Then smiled—softly, almost kindly—as if deciding whether to let them go… or tuck them in forever.

After all, the world was so warm now. So soft. So comfy.

____

This story is the first of several entries from my upcoming flash fiction collection, Codex of Ruin - a cycle of strange returns, cosmic echoes, and some very uncanny artifacts. Each piece is a fragment of a larger book, released here as a glimpse of what’s to come.

The Codex opens soon...

The storm gets louder, but the suspension remains.

Rain crosses the roof.

Lightning opens the swamp for a second.

The house holds.

The frogs continue.

#Mosslight #LagniappeHorror #AtmosphericHorror #AmbientHorror #neonnightmarerewind